


Hickory Dickory Dock

by gala_apples



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Frottage, Furries, M/M, Public Sex, speakeasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 22:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jet Star's wavehead enough to like having sex with other people instead of taking O-pills. He likes it even more when they're wearing something sexy.</p><p>Set prior to NaNaNa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hickory Dickory Dock

There are layers of credibility when it comes to waveheading. Who you know, what you are, what you’ve done; it all matters.

Everyone claims to know Doctor Death Defying, or Doctor Static Cunt, or Doctor Mastodon. Of course no one ever does. You have to be a real zonerunner to know the airwave healers, and the ability to feedback entire monologues doesn’t mean you’ve seen any rebel skin. Still, if you don’t try that lie you’re outed as low frequency, too latex to even know you should want to know all the Docs. And if you’re tagged as latex what’s the point in even leaving your bleached apartment?

Jet Star -what he’s known by when he’s being a real person, not a hunk of latex- doesn’t know any of the Doctors. When he has the chance to daydream -if it’s not pill induced it’s as dangerous as breathing in a limeaid cloud- he thinks he’d most like to meet Death Defying. Mastodon doesn’t talk much, he just plays ancient rock and jazz. Static Cunt is the other way around, for every punk anthem there’s ten minutes of anti-BLI speech. Infernal Machine was milkshake, but three months ago she and her girlfriend Little Miss made it onto the Red X, and a few weeks after that they had her episodes on Murder channel. Jet wants a conversation, not dumb silence or someone trying to sell him, he gets both enough at home. So hypothetically it would be Death Defying, so when some new wavehead asks for his specs, he tells them about helping the man draw henna designs on his coal black skin. It’s bullshit, but then anything connected with Battery City is.

A big part of being a wavehead is having the right look. Real colours, nothing on the white to black spectrum. Masks, of course, so the spy-flies have a harder time tracking faces when people enter or leave. Tight jeans, and a jacket that might provide thirty extra seconds to dash out of an acid rain before skin starts melting. Wrinkles, stains, tears; at least one of the three. No guns of course, that’s the parting gift the day you graduate Battery City for the Zones. 

Jet Star’s most proud of his denim jacket. It’s got a cent of old band patches on it, most of which he’s even heard on the airwaves. His mask is normal shaped, blue, his bandanna black and purple. His jeans aren’t impressive; standard BLI brand, black with pleats. He’s got ribbons pinned on in a few places, they quake if he ever trades in slamming whiskey for joining the waltzing. It’s a rare time though. But his jacket. His brain’s got lyrics clawing through his memory for each band, and that’s the kind of thing that gives a wavehead applause. 

One thing becomes glass when Jet Star comes in. He’s climbed down the lattice too soon, there are only a hand of people in HyperThrusts. All but one are needled up to the flushers. Ray doesn’t blame them for having to use the drips, sometimes you have to work for a division that monitors your pill intake. Better to flush after work than to buy a handful more and spend the night in a BLI dream. Still it sucks for him. Can’t talk to someone when their head is in a sensitizing cube. 

The stillness gives him time to notice things though. Jet Star likes to notice things, even when he’s Ray and it’s dangerous. One of the women has a empty gun holster attached to her belt. Jet immediately knocks down her frequency; no long term wavehead would think it’s cool to fake being an actual motorbaby. Sulpher and Cane got ghosted last month for driving around in Zone five. The Dracs didn’t give a shit that they weren’t registered offenders. A long term wavehead knows where the lines are. Another one of the women has lyrics written on her belt. Jet Star doesn’t want to get close enough to read all of them. If she’s having a bad flush this go round and he gets too close, she might try to strangle him with her IV cord. But he’ll ask her later what song it is. The snippet he can see; _Recommended at the price, insatiable in appetite_ , it has to mean something.

The wavehead that really captures his attention is the guy with the denim jacket. He’s lying on his front, leaving the back fully visible. There’s cracking paint covering it, neon yellow on pale denim, it takes him a second to see it as a pill capsule with a crossbones underneath it. Jet Star knows the entire scene is based on people thinking pills equal death, and maybe alone it wouldn’t pique his interest so much. But there is a huge mascot head on the floor beside him. Jet’s not ashamed to admit it’s steaming. Growing up on a kid’s cocktail lets you grow ‘entirely free of useless emotions’, and he’s smart enough to know that while binning the meds to feel true happiness or rage is slushie, self loathing emotions are nothing to crave.

Jet Star doesn’t want to wait any longer. He is interested, so he makes a mental text to look for mascot man after he’s done flushing, but he stops leaning against the wall and heads towards the bar. Its time to drink. Get altered without dropping cred to BLI is enough to give him a thrill. Doesn’t matter that drinking whiskey is like drinking a dirty beard, the money denial is it’s own vroom.

It’s some time later when he sees the man in the furry head, though he doesn’t know how long. Wavehead bars aren’t quite as unstructured as living in the zones, but in Battery City every minute is scheduled. At HyperThrusts Jet doesn’t wear a watch. He wears blue and purple and grey-blue denim and music patches and fucking stripy ribbons. 

Innuendo doesn’t occur to him, he just drops the message. “Wanna have sex?”

“I’m not taking the mouse head off,” the man says flatly. Jet Star almost flails. That voice is unmistakable. Mousehead is definitely Party Poison with a new outfit. He just asked Party Poison to have sex, and Party Poison didn’t tell him to wipe off! It’s like finding out there really is equality in the world, or ice around the top of the continent. 

Simply put, Jet is a Party Poison fanboy. Party is high frequency, vibrating at a level no one else in HyperThrusts does. Jet Star would give it a month until he’s down to a red wire green wire decision. He could run to the zones and risk getting ghosted every day. It’s that or get taken in by the Reeducation Team, dragged off to get a pill dispenser installed in his skull, powdered smoothie poured in automatically each morning. The third option; stop playing at rebellion and go back to the towers like ninety percent of the bar, it just isn’t one for Party Poison. Jet Star wants to be that infrared. He likes to think he knows which one he’ll pick in the end, but it’s a lie. You can’t see your own frequency, you can’t know what you’ll do until you do it. 

“Wouldn’t want to get polkadottie if you did.” It’s true. He likes the head. It’s happy, but not in a Better Living everything is perfect way. It’s a grittier happiness, you can see it in the dirty smudges on the smooth white face, the way the blue tufts of hair fall around the ears. 

“Good. Milkshake.” 

Party grabs his arms and pushes him towards the wall. His shoulder blades crash into one of the holograph posters, currently showing a Iron Maiden album cover. It only takes three seconds for the man in the room above to switch it to proper advertising if one of his minions sees a rep or a Drac heading towards HyperThrusts with their specs. The posters change, the whiskey’s tossed, the music stops. If no one is using the flushers the baggies are switched to an off brand. The SCARECROWS like brand competition for BLI more than they like sobers.

The posters are slushie, and right now Jet Star wouldn’t care if an entire horde of Draculoids came in. He’s got BLI brand in his pocket, and there’s nothing illegal about fucking. You might sense a Drac is leering under their stupid mask, but it’s nothing you can be taken for ‘questioning’ for. It’s impossible to care about anything else when he’s got his hands curled around the blushing cheeks of the person in front of him. Well, except maybe one thing.

“You got the rest of it?” If Party Poison had the tail or the furry pants somewhere and could change into them it would make everything even more perfect. 

“Negative. Head was all that was left.” 

Oh well. This is good enough, really. Party takes a shuffling step forward -there’s not a lot of miles to cover between their bodies- and grinds his hips into Jet Star’s. Jet Star arches to meet him, only sparing a nano to think that Party Poison’s hands up the sides of his shirt would feel better with gloves on. Not necessarily padded or furry, the white part of his head is smooth fibreglass, the gloves could be just as slick. But skin will have to do.

They don’t need to say anything else. At the harddrive they’re still Battery City citizens. BCers don’t attach significance to sex, not even waveheads who like to think they’re glittery. When O-pills can’t be afforded, a body has to resort to tangling in another. Not taking O-pills doesn’t mean you fall in love with the first person you drip on. 

He can hear Party Poison panting behind the carved curved channel that is his smirk. He can’t help but wonder how wet the inside of the head is; if his passion makes condensation. But he doesn’t ask.

When Jet Star comes he kisses Party’s smooth black nose. When Party comes, he slumps forward for just an instant before straightening. 

“Have a red red night.” 

Jet manages a parting comment too, and expects that’s it. Party Poison hesitates before walking away. It’s that hesitation that will have him zone hopping. Jet Star is cement about it, Party will be running. He just doesn’t know if he’ll be following the big blue head into the searing orange sunset.


End file.
